


Never Said Goodbye

by dagas isa (dagas_isa)



Category: Final Fantasy X
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-02
Updated: 2006-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dagas_isa/pseuds/dagas%20isa





	Never Said Goodbye

I kissed the wife and showed the son that fancy move once more. Who cared if he'd never master it himself, I'd always be the best blitzball player in Zanarkand.

I knew my itinerary, starting with stop by the sea to practice for a few hours. I never needed practice, but coaches always needed reassurance that their star player wouldn't fate, and words never convinced them. If anyone else said that, I would understand their nervousness, but not me, not the great Jecht, who would always be better than anyone.

Then I'd swagger through the streets of Zanarkand. My fans always lined the streets waiting for autographs. Stars must provide shows on and off the field, and I did. Beautiful groupies lined the street and if I didn't have the wife and kid at home, I'd have one on my arm for the day and night. As it was, I'd just kiss a few hands, sign a few blitzballs and scraps of papers. The walk between the coastline and the dome would take more than double the time it should, but I would appease the crowd. The team and the coaches could wait a few or start without me.

Team practice started near lunch; one captain, four starters, and five alternates passing, swimming, breathing in unison in drills. Of course, I was team captain. As the star player, that was my right. But the star's show requires supporting actors and warm ups. Teams play blitz after all, not individuals. At the crack of lunch, we all left the pool and headed to the nearest tavern.

In the luxury of a private room, we feasted our hard-working bodies. Rich seafood brought in from local fisherman made up most of the menu, but the chefs here prepared food to our liking including actual meat to keep the body strong. My first sweet taste of alcohol occurred during lunch, although not enough to make me fuzzy during practices. Tonight was a game night, so this would be the only drink to tide me over until the victory celebration.

Practice resumed afterwards, the morning drills replaced with formations. Right flank, left flank, offensive, defensive, we cycled through them with comfortable familiarity. If we had time before the next teams reservation came, we would perfect our own individual moves. The Mark III was my signature, but don't believe that I never spent late nights wondering how and if I could improve it, or whether a better version would come along. The morning time was my individual practice time, so I went from person to person to watch what they were coming up with and suggesting how to improve and mentally reassuring myself that my move was always the best. If I happened to perform some of my trademarked moves while helping my fellow players, it was only to show them what an awesome move looked like.

Somewhere around the middle of the afternoon, our reserved time for the stadium ended, and we players were let out of the stadium to rest up for the game ahead. If this were a non-game day, I'd be back at that little tavern downing my second, third, or fourth drink. I hold my liquor fine enough that I could spend the afternoon there and not hamper my life, but after a near drowning accident last year in the sphere, I chose to no longer take that chance. The fans could not see that show, if I had any say in it.

So instead, I headed home to my wife and son. They waited for me on the deck of our fancy houseboat, her staring up at me adoringly, and him glaring at me over a blitzball too big for his size and strength. Depending on how I felt, I might just go in for a nap until dinner, or watch the kid practice for a few hours. He still fell a lot, especially if he still insisted on using the regulation size instead of one tailored for children. I expected tears from him, and the necessity to teach him toughness. No one better than a father to teach that, right?

Dinner followed, always something the wife cooked up. We could afford better quality food in the restaurants, but she enjoyed cooking for me, so I let her. I called it good luck before a game; after all, I had never lost a game when I ate her cooking before. Immediately afterwards, I said good-bye to her and my son. Back in the old-days before he started wanting to be a blitz player, he would wave and wish me luck.

Major league games always take place at night, tournaments not withstanding. The lights of the stadiums, and from all the glowing jewelry the fans wear is a glorious background to the show we players put on. Blitzball, the combination of sports and theater, brings life to all who touch it, who play it. We seemingly defy death and physics with impossibly-conceived motions, but we always put on a good show for the fans. Blitz is not life. Life is what happens outside the stadium. Blitz is being alive.

We'd win, of course. No block ever produced a team that matched up to the Zanarkand Abes and their star player. The noise of victory celebrations would drown out the quiet voices of reason, and we'd all share drinks in the honor of the victors, with me having the responsibility to drink more, because I contributed most to the win.

That was my day, or very close to it. Details changed here and there, but the fundamentals remained constant.

Just a few blocks from my houseboat lie my stretch of perfect coastline. No matter how big a star I became, no one ever bothered me on that deserted stretch of beach, so that's where I practiced my secret new moves. Saltwater splashed over my body as I dived in for a few quick laps up and down the beach. I wanted to feel the ocean around me before moving to the deeper water needed for the more impressive moves.

A shadow moved in over the sea, turning the color dull. The weather reports said nothing about a storm, but Zanarkand rested on the edge of an unpredictable sea. Just a few hits then, Shallow water seemed more inviting, a hint from a possible trace of fear that needed eradication. I faced that fear and practiced as usual.

I tossed the ball as high into the air as I could while I submerged and surfaced to jump as gracefully as any creature born in water. My foot connected solidly with the ball and sent it spinning towards the far horizon.

The ball sailed back into my arms, a neat trick if I had done it intentionally, but I brought several of these regulation babies to me at any practice. Coach bought and paid for them, so why not use them without restriction? High waves crawled towards me, something under having apparently bounced back the ball. My strong arms and legs flailed as I tried to race the wave to the short, but I never stood a chance. In the end, I turned and faced that wave, glaring bravely at it while it loomed above me.

Water crashed over me, just ordinary water except for the sea monster hiding under it. Something of it opened, and the last thing I saw before everything changed was a big expanse of black. Only one thought crossed my mind.

I never really said goodbye to anyone.


End file.
